Hot for Teacher
by cimmerianwish
Summary: He's the hot young substitute who seems bent on taking the class valedictorian down a notch, and she's having none of it. Unfortunately, she doesn't realize until too late that the game was stacked against her from the start.
1. Let the Games Begin

**Disclaimer: **Nothing owned but my sordid imagination.

**Anonymous requested on Tumblr:** _I have a challenge for you. A one-shot or as long as you want. Whichever ship you want: Jareth/Sarah or Lokane. Person A shows up as the new substitute teacher in person B's history class._

**A/N:** Special shout out to my girl, Next To Something, for convincing me to write this. I have no idea what this thing is that I've created.

Everybody's legal here. Barely.

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><p><strong>Part One<strong>  
><em>Let the Games Begin<em>

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><p>"Oh, my god," Darcy whispers at Jane as they walk into their last class for the day. "Don't look now, but it should be illegal how smokin' the substitute is."<p>

Jane looks, of course (like she wasn't gonna—_please_), and Darcy is right. The sub filling in for Mrs. Baumhauer—who finally had her twins and will spend the last three months of the school year on maternity leave—is, in a word, gorgeous. He casually leans against the teacher's desk, arms folded across his chest as he watches students take their seats. Tall, slim, impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit, and dark hair slicked back without being stringy or greasy or generally gross like other guys who try. He's young, fresh out of the teacher mill—only four or five years older than Jane, a newly minted legal adult as of two months ago.

His gaze catches hers as she drops her bag by her desk, and he tilts his head, pale eyes dipping briefly downward before he smirks at her. She hides her blush with a glare, because that was so rude and creepy and inappropriate (and did other things to her that she'd rather not think about). His smile grows wider—almost a silent laugh—as if he likes her boldness.

The bell rings, breaking the weird tension between them, and she's relieved when he turns back to the rest of the class. "I am Loki Laufeyson, your substitute teacher," he announces in a crisp British accent. Because _of course_ he has the voice to go with his looks.

"Loki like the God of Mischief?" someone asks from the back of the room—probably Derek Taylor, the self-proclaimed class clown. (Who manages to get the second highest grade despite never doing a sentence of homework. Totally unfair.)

"Very astute," Mr. Laufeyson replies. "I am, indeed, very much like my namesake. Mercurial, dishonest when it suits me, not overly fond of rules, and well, I do like games." He glances at Jane again, and her skin prickles with goosebumps. Why is he picking on her?

He retrieves a clipboard from the desk. "Now that you know my name, tell me yours." He points to each student, starting in the back, and everyone spouts their first and last names like the AP automatons they've been trained to be until—

"Thor!" Derek shouts when it's his turn.

Mr. Laufeyson looks up from his list and gives him an unsettling grin. "It would be such a pity to be so close to graduation and university only to fail your history class in the home straight." He waits for the collective gasp from the students to die down before asking again, "Name, please."

Derek obeys, as does the rest of the class. Jane's heart pounds as she waits her turn—last because she sits in the front corner. It's a hard-won seat that she's always guarded—she's well-steeped in the belief that the closer to the teacher she sits, the higher her GPA—but she suddenly wishes she was in the back with the slackers. Because Mr. Laufeyson has left his desk and ambled in her direction as he takes the roll, stopping only when he's towering over her, and _god_, no one should smell that good.

"And you're Jane Foster. Slated to be the class valedictorian, correct?" He glances down at her with a condescending smirk—effectively canceling out her initial and unwelcome attraction to him.

"Yes." She glowers back at him.

"Mrs. Bamhauer speaks highly of you," he says. "We shall see if you live up to those expectations."

Her cheeks burn as the others snicker. Oh, he'll see, all right.

"I would be very careful laughing at Miss Foster," Mr. Laufeyson announces, clucking his tongue. "If she indeed fails to meet those expectations, then there is certainly no hope for the rest of you."

Jane is pretty sure he's just made things worse instead of better.

The rest of class is mostly uneventful—aside from him calling on her more often than any other student, giving her that tiny smile as if bating her to answer incorrectly. She doesn't, of course, even if she stutters the teensiest bit each time he tries to catch her off guard. He's making this a twisted kind of competition, and she'll be damned if she doesn't win it.

Finally, _finally_ the Spanish Inquisition ends when he starts jotting their homework assignment down on the board. And she's got three more months of this to look forward to? She'd better bone up on her world history—read ahead, spend some extra time in the library researching the minutia not covered in the textbook—because this pompous bastard is going _down_. (And history class did _not_ become absolutely exciting all of a sudden. Nope. Nuh-uh.)

A note lands on her desk, and Jane steals a glance at Mr. Laufeyson to make sure he's still enthralled with his font-worthy handwriting before opening it. It's from Darcy. How shocking.

_Hot, amoral, and totally into the super star student. So jealous of you rn._

Jane rolls her eyes. Yeah, he's totally into trying to take the super star student down a peg. She scribbles a reply and passes the paper over.

_You're crazy. He is so not._

Darcy shakes her head when she opens the note, writes something and tosses it back to Jane.

_I have eyeballs, mkay? And I saw the way he checked you out when you walked in cuz you've got da booty and da brains. And gawd, he's like barely older than us. You're legal and bangable. And it should be illegal how bangable he is. It's a match made in teacher/student fantasy heaven._

Jane chokes back a curse, and Mr. Laufeyson raises an eyebrow at her over his shoulder.

"Is something the matter, Miss Foster?" he asks. "You look flushed."

She clears her throat, painfully aware that everyone is staring at her. "Nothing, sir. I'm fine."

He gives her a once over as if he doesn't believe her, but thankfully he turns back to the board. Jane scratches a furious reply to Darcy and lobs it across the aisle at her.

_OMG! STOP IT! I swear if I get detention because of this stupid note, I am so not helping you with your final paper and you can forget about going to Berkeley!_

Hopefully that'll be enough to curb Darcy's pervy imagination.

And apparently it's not, because the note is back in her hands again.

_Dude, do you think he'll insist on disciplining you personally? Like all, "Miss Foster, you have to stay after class every day this week and clean the chalkboards and straighten the books while I sit at my desk consumed with lust." Because that sounds totally worth it. I'll get Ian to help me with my paper._

Jane folds the note up and sets it down. There is no way in this universe that she's gracing Darcy with a reply to _that_. No. Just, _no_. Besides, Mr. Laufeyson is explaining their assignment—choose one technological development during the Industrial Revolution and write a three page essay on its impact and influence on the modern age—and he's made his way back to her again, slender fingers splayed across the polished wood top of her desk. He gives them an admonition to use the last fifteen minutes of class to start their research and thankfully steps away.

Jane flips open her textbook, thinking she'll take a less conventional approach with the cotton gin (everyone else will probably do railroads), when she sees it. The note is gone. The. Note. Is. Gone. Heart thumping frantically against her ribs, she tries to appear casual as she searches for it. Please let it have fallen to the floor. _Please_.

It hasn't.

She glances at Darcy in the off chance that her best friend has taken it back, but Darcy is busy pretending to read when she's really playing solitaire on her iPod. A movement at the front of the room catches her eye. Mr. Laufeyson is leaning back in his chair, long legs propped up on the desktop, wearing the most horrible grin as he stares at her. He languidly raises his hand. Between his first two fingers is the note.

Oh, god. Oh, god. _Ohgodohgodohgod_.

He holds it up for several seconds—to make sure she knows what he has—and then makes a show of opening it up, his gaze only leaving hers to read what she and Darcy scrawled on the creased notebook paper. His expression turns to mock horror, but he can't quite keep the malicious delight from the corners of his mouth. And even though Jane isn't the one who wrote the indecent stuff, she's one hundred percent certain that she'll be paying for it.

She lays her head down on her desk with a quiet groan. She wants to die. She wants the electrons of her body to move so rapidly that she flies apart and becomes pure energy. And if she takes out Darcy and the substitute teacher in the explosion, all the better.

Mercifully, the bell rings.

Jane shoves her book into her bag and almost screams in frustration when it catches on her chair in her frenetic attempt to dash out of the class before—

"Miss Foster," Mr. Laufeyson calls out over the din of exiting students. "If you would remain for a moment."

Darcy exclaims in a sotto voice, "I told you!" with a wink before leaving with the others.

And then Jane is alone. With Mr. Laufeyson. Who read the note.

She closes her eyes, sucks in a steadying breath, and approaches his desk. "You wanted to see me?" She congratulates herself on sounding way more composed than she is.

Mr. Laufeyson looks up at her, the corners of his lips curling upward with the kind of smile that she imagines a psychopath wears just before he cuts off somebody's finger. "How old are you, Jane?"

She frowns at the unexpected question. "Eighteen."

He nods gravely. "A legal adult, then." The way he says that—every nerve-ending in her body has abruptly become a mini Tesla coil. "And as such, you are held accountable for inappropriate conduct." And the Tesla coils shut right back down.

Her face is hot with both embarrassment and outrage. "But I didn't—"

"Oh, I gathered that you didn't make the…_lascivious_ remarks," he cuts her off, sitting up in his chair. "However, I think you're responsible enough to rein in your friend's less than virtuous tendencies. She's still quite a child."

"But that's not fair!" She yells back at him. Because it isn't! And if he insists on punishing her for Darcy's stupid comments, she's so taking it up with the headmistress.

"Welcome to adulthood," he returns with that awful grin. "I'll see you tomorrow. Oh, and don't forget your note." He holds it out to her, and she snatches it from him. It's been a decade since she's been tempted to stick her tongue out at anyone, but she would _really_ like to right now.

But nope. She has to pretend to be the super mature grown up as she saunters out of the room with her head held high because the amusement in his expression challenged her to behave like a whiny teenager. Everything is going to be a rivalry with him, isn't it?

Later, the note falls out of her bag while she's working on her homework, and she learns that he's added his own observations in ridiculously perfect penmanship.

_I believe I'll defer the detention for now. However, I'm always available for private tutoring after school should you ever have the need._

With his phone number.

His. Phone. Number.

She crumples the paper into a ball and throws it across the room. He wasn't hitting on her, she reasons. Of course not. He's a _teacher_. He'd never be stupid enough to hit on a student, especially on his first day. And it's not like he's the first instructor ever to give out a personal phone number to Jane for academic purposes.

Yeah. That's it.

She tries to ignore Darcy's voice in her thoughts, singing "Bow-chicka-bow-wow" on repeat.

**~o0O0o~**

Jane is apoplectic. Ready to commit murder. Of a certain substitute.

She's put up with a lot in the last three weeks. He continues to lob the hardest questions in her direction, and it's a good thing she's up on her studies—particularly the little known facts she found in the obscure books in the library. He seems genuinely pleased when she tosses one of those at him. Not that she cares. She so doesn't.

Her personal _favorite_, though, is pop quizzes and tests. He perches on the edge of her desk and plays a game with the class. Any question that Jane gets incorrect is extra credit for everyone else. She missed one on the first quiz and none after that. Which, of course, isn't exactly endearing her to her classmates. Even Darcy begged her to get a couple wrong now and then. As much as Jane hates the dirty looks from the other students, she can't bring herself to throw her grade—even a little. Because that would mean that Mr. Laufeyson wins, and she can't let him.

What he's done today, though, is tantamount to cheating. She glares down at her five page report on military aviation during the first World War, at the B-minus slashed across the top in red ink. B-_minus_. That's practically a C! Jane Foster doesn't get C's. She doesn't get B's! And this paper definitely should have earned top marks.

When the bell rings, she tells Darcy that she'll catch up with her later, and then she waits until everyone else clears out. Mr. Laufeyson is seated, as usual, with his feet on the desk, lounging back so far in his chair, it's a hairsbreadth away from toppling over. If she gave him the tiniest shove—

"Jane Foster," he says with that stupid smirk he seems to reserve just for her. "To what do I owe the unparalleled pleasure of your company?" He knows, of course. _Jerk_.

She slams the paper down in front of him. "You made a mistake."

He raises a brow. "Did I? How uncharacteristic of me." He picks up her assignment, leafs through the pages. "Everything seems to be in order."

She stares at him agape. Is he really going to pretend that grade is _legit_? "Are you kidding me?" She tears the paper out of his hand and shakes it at him. "This is easily an A!"

He lowers his feet and leans forward, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "From someone else, yes—perhaps even your friend, Miss Lewis," he says. "But you? Oh, Jane. You can do so much better than this. You plugged all the variables into your little formula for success and hoped to churn out the highest marks without any effort at all. Tell me, why should I reward that kind of indolence?"

She opens her mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. Because he's kind of right. More than kind of. She'd sooner take the B-minus than admit it, though. He'd better offer extra credit, or so help her, if he screws up her GPA, she _will_ kill him.

"However," he says, giving her a Cheschire-like grin, "I may be amenable to changing your, well, disappointing grade if you can get me a revised paper by—" he glances at his watch, "—ten o'clock tonight."

That's just six and a half hours from now, and she has other homework. The man is insane! "So, what," she says with a snort, "you're going to be waiting here until I come back?"

"Hardly." He takes the paper from her, writes an address down on the back, and hands it to her. "You'll bring it to my place. Hurry along, now. I'll dock five points for every minute you're late."

"Fine." She gives him a final glower before marching out of the classroom, his laughter trailing after her. She seriously hates him sometimes.

She skates by on her other assignments, using her "little formula for success" as Mr. Laufeyson called it, because she needs the extra time to fix her history paper. But—_ugh_—now that he's drawn her attention to this lazy habit, she's really annoyed with herself. And him, too.

She gets her work done in five hours.

He lives in a high rise with a doorman—with the whole tasseled jacket and behind a mahogany desk thing going on. She's glad she changed out of her school uniform before heading over; she already feels out of place in jeans and a hoodie with her dad's beat up old leather satchel slung over her shoulder. How does a teacher—a recently graduated one, at that—afford a place like this? Maybe he moonlights as the super and his apartment is a dinky little studio that was originally a janitor's closet.

Fortunately, the doorman doesn't bat an eyelash at her when she gives him her name and who she's here to see. He smiles at her, gestures toward the elevators and tells her to go on up; Mr. Laufeyson is expecting her. She's had all afternoon to be nervous about going to her teacher's home and nary a heart palpitation until this very moment. Which is stupid because all she's going to do is hand him the paper and be done with it. (And no, the fact that he gave her his phone number the first day they met has absolutely nothing to do with anything.)

She almost jumps when the elevator dings and the doors open onto his floor. The hallway is hardwood, lined with an ornately designed carpet runner. There are tables at either end with breathtaking fresh flower bouquets. Jane may not be the most affluent student at the academy—far from it—but she's been exposed to decadence like this, thanks to Darcy.

He's probably not the super. Not on the tenth floor. Maybe he lives with his parents? Who are completely fine with him inviting over a student late at night? Yeah, no. Bestselling author who writes under a pseudonym—who takes substitute teaching gigs when he has writer's block and tortures poor, unsuspecting pupils just for kicks. At his age? Not likely—the bestselling author thing, anyway.

No, this all reeks of a trust fund baby trying to prove his salt by playing at philanthropy in the Peace Corps or becoming a teacher. The jerk still needs to work on mastering the humility part of the act, though.

She knocks loudly, anxious to get this over with. It takes forever for him to answer, and she's giving serious consideration to the idea of shoving the paper under the door when it finally swings open.

"You're early," he says.

She cannot immediately formulate a response. Because he's leaning against the jamb clad in only a bath towel, and he's still a little wet. She's trying really, _really_ hard to bring her eyes to his, but she can't stop staring at his bare torso. He's been hiding a lean, athletic build under those tailored suits. Not quite the meathead muscles of someone who spends hours in the weight room, but he definitely works out by the soft lines defining his pecs, his abs, that v-taper down—

No, no, no. Up. Look _up_.

"Do I get five extra points for every minute I'm early?" she asks brusquely, pretending she's not blushing and pretending he's not grinning because he's caught her ogling him.

"Why don't you come in and we'll open negotiations." He pushes the door open enough for her to enter without brushing up against him—barely. And yep, he smells even better post shower.

He directs her to the living room just beyond the entryway, tells her to make herself comfortable, and then disappears off to places unknown in his spacious apartment, ostensibly to put some clothes on. After a glance at her surroundings, she's hesitant to park herself on any of the furniture. It's antique, all of it in such pristine condition that it looks like a showroom at a museum. Not that surprising for a history teacher, she supposes.

The walls are decorated with relics, too, but the kind picked up during world travels rather than from vintage stores or Sotheby's. There's tribal paraphernalia—masks, a shield and spear—from Africa, a pair of katanas from Japan, pewter etchings from somewhere in Scandinavia, and more. The collection is eclectic with no rhyme or reason to it, but somehow it all _fits_. Her eyes are drawn to a small wooden statue of a Hindu goddess on the mantel. The figurine is smiling, two of her four hands holding strange flowers while the other pair seems to beckon Jane to come closer. The craftsmanship is incredible, and Jane stretches up to touch the goddess's finely detailed headdress.

"Lakshmi," Mr. Laufeyson murmurs behind her, and she jerks back—right into his chest (thankfully no longer naked). He steadies her with fingers curled against her hip as he reaches around her to pick up the statue. "The beautiful goddess of light, good fortune, and wealth." He drops it in her hands and backs away.

Not enough, though. The other side of the room wouldn't be far enough. His presence is suddenly electrifying, and his brief contact sent a dozen thunderbolts sparking throughout her body. This is totally Darcy's fault because of all those insidious comments about banging—and Mr. Laufeyson's fault for rudely answering the door practically nude.

"Careful, Jane," he warns in a voice that makes her want to close her eyes and lean into it. "Lakshmi isn't overly fond of laziness."

And that little dig is just what Jane needs to snap out of this crazy trance, thank god. She rolls her eyes and sets the figurine back on the mantel.

"Speaking of laziness." She fishes her revised paper out of her satchel and passes it over. "My best effort, as requested."

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Let's see, shall we?" He sits in one of the cushioned armchairs near the fireplace, and when she doesn't move, says, "Have a seat."

Her brows inch up her forehead. "You're going to grade it now? In front of me?" She's not sure how she feels about that prospect. He gives her a hard enough time in the classroom, but picking her report apart right to her face? That's not an experience she'd like to have, thank you very much.

"As they say, there's no time like the present," he replies. "Sit."

She takes the chair opposite him and hugs her satchel as she waits for the verdict. He says nothing as he reads, not a single snide comment. His eyes glide over the text, finger rubbing across his lips, and somehow the silence is more unnerving than if he openly mocked her work. She does want to impress him—not because she's harboring a secret crush like Darcy thinks (nope, not at all, not even the littlest bit), but because he doles out praise as often as the Nobel Peace Prize is awarded: rarely and only to the worthy few.

"Much improved," he announces, flipping back to the first page. "Aside from the grammatical errors."

"What?" She's out of her chair at the accusation, grabbing the paper from him. Where? Where does she have a misplaced comma or a dangling participle? She double—no, _triple_ checked it before printing it out, and then did another read-through for good measure.

He's laughing. _Laughing_. At her expense. As usual. (But she is relieved that he was only teasing.) "Your record remains perfect," he says, rising out of his chair and ushering her toward the door. "It seems I'll have to devise another method of thwarting you."

Her jaw drops open with indignation. He really _is_ singling her out. "Why? Why do you have it in for me?" she asks. "Do you have a thing against valedictorians? Or did I do something to you in a former life?"

He breathes a quiet laugh, gaze falling to the floor for a beat. He takes a step toward her, then another until her back touches the door. "In a manner of speaking." He glances back up at her, and the intensity in his expression turns her bones gelatinous. He brushes a strand of hair from her eyes, leans forward a fraction before stopping himself. "When the reason comes to you," he murmurs with a smile that borders on predatory, "you and I will have the most _fascinating_ conversation."

He hooks a finger in the pocket of her hoodie and pulls her toward him—not quite against him, but close enough that she can feel the heat radiating off of him—and she can't coax a protest from her suddenly dry throat. They are inching precariously close to a dangerous line that should never, ever be crossed, and she's almost tempted to do it anyway. Which is bad. Very bad. The last time she felt like this… Well, she doesn't exactly regret _that_, but she will if she makes the same mistake with Mr. Laufeyson.

"Good night, Jane," he says, and her cheeks burn with embarrassment as she realizes that he was only moving her out of the way so he could open the door. "Until tomorrow."

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><p><strong>AN:** Thanks, as ever, for reading! Feel free to let me know what you think. There's only one more part to go. (And yes, I haven't forgotten about Risky Business.)


	2. The Reason

**A/N:** So, this is like three chapters all rolled into one. (Technically two chapters and an epilogue.) But let's pretend this is still a two-shot, shall we?

Deepest apologies to native speakers of French. Special thanks to theborax on Tumblr for helping with my French errors!

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><p><strong>Part Two<strong>  
><em>The Reason<em>

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><p>Colorful lights lance out in the dark club, keeping time with the ear-splitting music, and, Jane thinks, exactly the right kind of place for an anti-prom with her friends. She did the traditional thing last year—complete with the expensive ball gown, a senior boyfriend who was the captain of the lacrosse team, who had every intention of deflowering his date (and who got a face full of pepper spray instead)—and there was no way Jane was going to repeat that debacle.<p>

Besides, teachers chaperone the dance, and she wants one night—a few measly hours—where Mr. Laufeyson isn't balanced on the edge of her every thought, smirking at her, goading her with that hint he casually dropped a month ago that she should know why he has a vendetta against her.

No, vendetta isn't the right word. Vendetta implies anger, contempt, revenge, and while he's forced her into an intellectual battle of wits, he doesn't seem to hate her. Otherwise, he wouldn't seem so gratified when she rises to his every challenge. She's pretty certain that he likes her, in his twisted teacher-tormenting-a-student way. More than that, she'd rather not know, even if the idea of him actually wanting her makes her stomach flutter.

She's Googled him, scoured her yearbooks and journals looking for any clue to when she might have crossed paths with him before he took over for Mrs. Baumhauer. There's absolutely nothing, though. Maybe he has her confused with someone else. Maybe he's just plain nuts. She doesn't know.

And tonight, she doesn't care. She's going to get lost in the music. She's going to make generous use of her fake ID at the bar. She's going to be wonderfully reckless like the teenager on the cusp of responsibility and other adult-type things that she is. And just maybe, she can recreate a scrap of the magic she experienced during Spring Break.

Two hours later, and she's basking in the warm buzz of liquor, the thumping bass, and bodies in motion around her. Darcy yells over the cacophony that this is the best idea that Jane has ever had. It's the fourth time she's said that; the girl is totally smashed. Jane's glad that sweet, sober Ian is looking out for her best friend. Her own date—Derek, of all people—isn't too bad, either. At least he's not pawing at her, pressing a keycard into her hand and whispering all the dirty things he plans to do to her. Granted, he _is_ grinding up against her, but that's not wholly unexpected in a place like this.

As the song bleeds into another one, Darcy exclaims that they need to get another round and cool off. Jane doesn't disagree, though she shares a look with Ian, hoping he'll help make sure Darcy's next drink is a virgin one. Puking, or worse, a trip to the ER for alcohol poisoning would definitely put a damper on the festivities.

At the edge of the dance floor, someone knocks into her, sending her crashing against another body. A body connected to a hand that captures her wrist and keeps her from toppling over. A body connected to the stern face of Mr. Laufeyson. The apology on the tip of her tongue withers beneath his glower.

"Oh, shit!" Darcy mutters behind her—perfectly expressing Jane's sentiments.

He takes in the sweaty, inebriated group, his gaze stopping on Ian. "You," he says. "I don't know you."

"I'm, uh... I'm Ian, sir," Ian stutters. "I'm a junior."

Mr. Laufeyson nods, though his severe expression doesn't relax a millimeter. (And he's still holding Jane's wrist.) "And not drinking like the others, I take it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good." He looks over the other three again. "Then you can see your friends safely home. Now."

"Hey, man—" Derek starts to argue, but cuts off abruptly when Mr. Laufeyson holds up a finger.

"Choose your next words _very_ carefully, Mr. Taylor," he says. "They will be the difference between a report to the headmistress about student underage drinking and a mysterious bout of selective amnesia on my part."

Derek closes his mouth.

"I'm glad we understand one another." Mr. Laufeyson's gives him a tight smile. "Run along."

Darcy reaches for Jane's hand and tugs. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Mr. Laufeyson won't let her go, though. "I'll be seeing to Miss Foster," he says, flashing his teeth in a wholly different kind of smile. "After all, we wouldn't want to risk your beloved valedictorian's unblemished record by any further poor decisions like, oh, going to another club."

Jane scowls—because he's infuriatingly right. Darcy would make that exact suggestion as soon as they were out of earshot of nosy substitute teachers. And Jane would go along with it because this is her designated night of debauchery.

"Dude—" Darcy narrows her eyes and jabs a finger at him, "—you totally _do_ want to bang Jane!"

Jane's skin flushes red from her scalp to her toes. "Oh, my god, Darcy!"

Mr. Laufeyson cants a brow. "And who's to say I haven't already?" He drops the lie with such a straight face that Jane thinks that maybe he really is the mythical god of deception. He lets out a smug laugh. "Now that I've made you aware of how susceptible you are under the influence, perhaps you'll reconsider any plans to continue this foolishness."

Darcy casts a glance at Jane that's somewhere between a cringe and an apology. Jane doesn't know if it's for the drunken outburst that will probably become the latest school rumor—thank god there's only a couple more weeks left of high school—or because she's stuck being chaperoned home by the teacher while the rest of her friends go off to continue the party elsewhere.

Mr. Laufeyson makes Jane stand by him as the others meander through the crowd toward the exit, and then he's dragging her to the upper level where the tables are.

"Hey!" She tries to jerk her hand out of his iron grasp. "You can let me go now."

"Not until I'm certain you won't run off."

She groans. "I'm not a baby. I know how to behave."

"That's a matter of perspective." He shifts so that his fingers are curled around her palm instead of her wrist, effectively changing their appearance from guardian leading around a petulant teen to a couple having a night out. Fan-freaking-tastic. Why don't they just leave already?

He stops at a table where a breathtaking dark haired woman is seated. "Loki," she says, rising, her gaze passing over Jane and landing on their joined hands. "Who's this?"

Jane looks heavenward and sighs. Of course he's on a date. Maybe even in a serious relationship. Why shouldn't he be? He's unfairly attractive, too. And smart. And he works out. And there's too much liquor in Jane's system to deny that she is absolutely, positively jealous of the statuesque woman standing before them. Jane feels like a dumb school girl in comparison.

"This," Mr. Laufeyson says as he picks up a blazer from the chair next to his girlfriend, "is Jane Foster. And I'm taking her home."

The other woman frowns, and for a millisecond Jane thinks about squelching any notion the woman has that her beau is openly cheating on her, but ultimately chooses not to. Because Jane might as well wreck his night as much as he's wrecking hers.

"Your brother will be disappointed that you're leaving early," Gorgeous Lady says.

Jane glances at Mr. Laufeyson. He has a brother? He didn't just materialize into existence when the atoms for handsome collided with the ones for intellect and snark? Jane bites her lip to keep from giggling at her own joke. She doesn't want to look even more like a child around these tall, beautiful adults who will probably get married and have tall, beautiful kids that will become super models who cure cancer.

"I'm sure you'll adequately convey my regrets, Sif." Mr. Laufeyson finally releases Jane's hand, only to grab it again after he shrugs his jacket on. "Good night."

They're off once more, this time toward the exit and out into the warm night. He doesn't say a word as he leads her down the sidewalk. She has to practically run to keep up with his long strides. Vertically blessed people can be _so_ inconsiderate sometimes.

Ahead lights flash on a sleek black classic Maserati. (Something she only knows about because her ex, Donald, used to drool excessively over cars like this.) Yep, Mr. Laufeyson is _definitely_ a trust fund baby. Like a gentleman—which she doubts he actually is—he helps her into the passenger seat and closes the door. Once he's inside and the engine is purring, she breaches the silence.

"She's pretty." That's not at all what she meant to say. Gotta love how drinking erases conversation filters.

Mr. Laufeyson frowns as he puts the car into gear. "Who?"

"Your date or girlfriend or whatever," Jane says, trying very hard to sound casual about it all. "Sif, right?"

He gives her a sidelong glance, the corner of his mouth twitching with a suggestion of a grin. "Ah, yes. She is quite pretty."

"Have you guys been together long?" Why, oh, why is Jane asking this? She is being such a masochist right now when she's lacking the necessary inhibitions to deny how insanely attracted she is to him—despite how often she wants to strangle him. (And then kiss him.)

"I've known Sif for many years." He weaves in and out of traffic with the expertise of a NASCAR driver. "Since childhood, in fact."

"That's cool." Jane stares blankly out of the window at the scenery whizzing by. Her skin is hot from the alcohol, from dancing, and from the humiliation of yet again projecting her unasked-for crush onto him. Why would he ever feel the same about her—a silly high school senior—especially when he has a real woman like Sif in his life?

"Are you jealous, Jane," he asks, drawing her attention back to him, "of my brother's fiancé?"

His _brother's_— "Oh." She wants to sink into the bucket seat and turn invisible, especially when he laughs. It's embarrassing how relieved she is that Gorgeous Lady isn't his sweetheart.

"'Oh,' indeed." He pulls into an underground parking garage nowhere near her neighborhood.

"I thought you were taking me home," she says when he parks and cuts the engine.

"I have taken you home." He smiles at her. "My home—unless, of course, you're anxious to greet your parents in this state."

"My parents died when I was little. I live with my godfather." She grits her teeth to keep more personal stuff from spilling out. Forget sodium pentothal; get a few cocktails in her, and she'll happily tell anyone her life story—and her seventh grade locker combination.

Mr. Laufeyson raises a brow, but doesn't give her that sympathetic stare that so many other teachers have_. Isn't it so sad that she's an orphan? Isn't it amazing what she's accomplished with the unfair hand life dealt her?_ Not Mr. Laufeyson, though. He looks her over and says, "I imagine your godfather wouldn't be altogether pleased if you came home drunk." And she likes him just a little bit more for treating her like an average impulsive teenager instead of some kid who rose from the ashes of her circumstances to be a beacon of inspiration to others.

"Probably not," she agrees. "But I was supposed to be staying with Darcy tonight."

He lets out a soft laugh. "I doubt Miss Lewis is finished having her fun for the evening. It would be rather awkward if you arrived at her house without her." He's out of the vehicle before she can think of a snappy comeback to that. (There isn't one.)

The trek from his swanky car to his swanky apartment is a bit of a blur. She's not that far gone, tipsy really, but now that the adrenaline is out of her system, she's too tired to bother paying attention to anything but his hand on the skin exposed by the open back of her halter dress. (_Darcy's_ halter dress, actually.)

He kicks the door shut once they're inside, drops his keys on the small table in the entryway, and leads her down a dark hallway.

"Where are you taking me?" she asks when it occurs to her that maybe he's not going to drown her in coffee until she can fake being sober well enough to go home.

"To my bed."

Jane's eyes bulge and she pulls away from him. He's attractive, and yeah, she's probably malleable enough right now to be tempted to do something she shouldn't, but if he just assumes—

"Where you will sleep this off—_alone_." He gives her a pointed look.

She decides blushing will likely be a permanent fixture in her life as long as he's around. Because she can never seem to get a bead on him, even when her neurons are firing at optimum. One second he's got her convinced that maybe Darcy's right, that he wants Jane to be hot for teacher, and then the next he's providing a completely rational explanation for his behavior.

Ugh, she's too exhausted to try and make sense of anything—except for the huge, comfy-looking bed he's showing her. Oh, yeah. She wants _that_. Come to mama. She flops onto it, face first and spread eagle, and she sighs in bliss, ready to slip into the sweet embrace of oblivion where there are no sexy young substitute teachers ruining her last night of carefree fun before she has to grow up.

"Oh, no you don't."

He pulls her back upright, and she makes a noise of protest. He's so _rude_. "What now?" she asks—whines, really—as she plants herself on the edge of the mattress.

"I have rather vehement objections to footwear in my bed." He glances at the knee-high boots she's sporting (also curtesy of Darcy) before crossing the room to a tall bureau.

She can't argue with that and obediently unzips the offending shoes, kicking them off. "Happy?"

He answers by tossing something at her—a big t-shirt. Well, big for her, probably just right for Mr. Giant. "Change," he orders.

"Why?" she scoffs. Why won't he just let her go to sleep? "You have a rule against women wearing dresses and leggings in your bed, too?"

He grins. "I typically have a rule against women wearing _anything_ in my bed," he says. "But I'll make an exception for tonight. Now, change." And with that final command, he's heading for the door.

But she has a burning question that the alcohol in her veins insists can't wait until tomorrow. "Why didn't you just let me go with my friends?" Obviously he didn't bring her here to take advantage of her—it should bother her that it bothers her a little bit that he doesn't try to at least kiss her—and she doubts he cares that much about her reputation, academic or otherwise.

He pauses at the threshold, fingers gripping the jamb. "I was saving you from making a mistake."

She frowns. Mistake? What mistake? Underage drinking? Bad dancing?

He looks over his shoulder at her, brow peaked as if she ought to know what he's talking about.

She opens her mouth to demand an explanation when it hits her. "Derek? You think I was going to…" The rest dies in her throat at the flat stare Mr. Laufeyson gives her. "You did! Oh, my god! I'm not that kind of girl!"

He doesn't say anything, but his expression is so blatantly dubious that she feels compelled to clear things up for him. "I've only been with one guy, not that it's any of your business. Satisfied?"

He seems surprised by that revelation, but covers it pretty quickly with a smirk. "A boy you were madly in love with, no doubt."

She glares at the mockery in his tone. "Wrong again. It was a one-night stand." And there goes her proof that she doesn't do random hookups. Nice, Jane. Real smart.

"A one-night stand?" He's really amused by that. Great. "Your first time sounds…special."

"It was spectacular!" she shouts back at him. It's true. It was pretty damn awesome, and she's not going to let him make fun of a memory she holds dear. "I'm not talking about this with you. Get out!" She chucks the t-shirt at him, but her aim is wild and it hits the wall instead.

Mr. Laufeyson laughs—the jerk—but graciously closes the door.

She is so out of here first thing in the morning. But sleep. Yes, sleep is good. And his t-shirt smells like him. (She might keep it out of spite.)

**~o0O0o~**

The first time Jane wakes up, she wishes she hadn't. Her head hurts just enough to be annoying and her tongue feels thick and fuzzy. As morning-afters go, it's not horrible—not that she has a lot of experience with these things. There's a glass of water and a couple of aspirin on the nightstand, and she thanks the hangover fairy as she downs both of them.

The second time she wakes up, she's coherent enough to be disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Where—? Oh, right. The entire terrible night comes back to her. Actually, it was pretty great until Mr. Laufeyson dragged her off because he thought she was going to get it on with Derek. God, why does he even care? Darcy would say he's jealous. Doubtful.

Her headache is gone, but she still has cotton mouth and the glass on the nightstand is empty—and her stomach growls with a queasy kind of hunger. So, options. She could get dressed and try to sneak out. Her car is at Darcy's, but she has some cash leftover from last night's escapades. She could have the doorman call a cab for her. That's a good plan except… Where _are_ her clothes? The boots are where she left them, but her dress, her leggings—gone.

So much for sneaking out. Why is she even surprised that he's made this a challenge, too?

After a quick trip to the bathroom, where she tried to detangle her hair and wipe away her smeared mascara, she looks for a blanket or a sheet that isn't gargantuan that she can wrap herself in. As big as his shirt seemed on her last night, it feels a little on the short side now. There's nothing petite-sized in the room, though. Fine. If he can answer his door in a towel, then she can go out there in a shirt and panties. Let him be uncomfortable for once.

Ignoring the nervous flutter in her middle, she ventures out of the bedroom. The delicious combination of coffee and breakfast—something with eggs—greets her as she meanders down the hall. Her stomach rumbles again, and she follows her nose to the kitchen. She curses under her breath when she sees Mr. Laufeyson busy at the stove. Because her plan to make him squirm is going to fail spectacularly. The insensitive bastard is dressed in only pajama bottoms, and they're hanging precariously low on his hips. And why is it so weirdly sexy that he's barefoot?

He looks up when she stops at the edge of the kitchen, his gaze doing a full tour of her body, lingering on her thighs before traveling back up to her face. "Sit." He gestures with a spatula toward the stools at the breakfast bar.

She resists the urge to yank down the hem of shirt as she takes a seat. "You know," she says, "we're not in the classroom. You don't get to boss me around."

"Because I'm not your teacher in this setting?" He grins, setting down a steaming mug of coffee in front of her. "Sugar? Cream?"

"Both, please. And yeah, something like that."

His smile widens as he opens the refrigerator and pulls the creamer out. "I'll be sure to keep that in mind, then."

No. Nope. She is not going to read anything into his words. That's how she gets herself in trouble—thinking he means one thing when he actually means something else entirely. "Where are my clothes?"

"I'm having them laundered for you." The toaster pops and he goes back to fixing whatever meal he's concocted. "They'll be returned in an hour or two."

Having them laundered? He's such a spoiled rich kid. Well, not a kid—but that's beside the point. And she's not sure how she feels about being stuck here longer with him. What are they going to do while they wait? Play history trivia? Argue over whether or not the second World War could have been prevented?

He hands her a plate topped with a mouth-watering spinach and tomato omelet, and some whole wheat toast. "Eat," he says, and then when she raises an eyebrow, adds, "Or don't—though you'll hurt my feelings if you let my culinary skills go to waste."

"Liar," she says, digging into breakfast before she can dwell on how comfortably domestic the exchange is. He is not flirting with her. He is _not_.

Silence falls between them, interrupted only by the clank of her fork against the plate—the omelet is even better than it looks—and the sound of running water as he cleans the skillet. She tries not to wonder how many women have sat in this very spot, admiring his lithe form while he feeds them a meal that tastes like it was prepared by a master chef. Seriously, where did he learn to cook like this? France? Italy?

"Have you figured it out yet?" His unexpected question jolts her out of her thoughts, and for two seconds, she fears she might have spoken them out loud.

"What?"

He dries off his hands and presses his palms against the counter. "The reason."

"The reason," she repeats, not understanding at first. And then… Oh. _Oh_. "Not yet."

"That's a pity." He brings himself flush against the counter, closer to her, and drops his voice. "Shall I give you a hint, Jane?"

She stares back at him wide eyes and sincerely considers telling him thanks but no thanks. Because she doesn't want to find out that her grandfather bullied his grandfather in grammar school, and he's merely carrying on an old blood feud or something ridiculous like that. Or maybe she's just a proxy for someone who hurt him years ago.

He leans forward, and with a smile that sets her heart racing, murmurs, "Monte Carlo."

She can't move. She can't breathe. Because what he's implying is impossible. "No."

"Oh, yes." He nods, his tongue grazing his bottom lip. "La Vie Colorée."

Her breakfast churns in her stomach. No, no, no, it couldn't have been him. But then, with all that stupid body paint the dancers splattered on each other in the blacklit club, she hadn't been able to get a good look at his face. He was tall and French, and what he did—

"No." She shakes her head. "You're lying." She slides off the stool and starts for his bedroom. If she has to go home wearing only a t-shirt and boots, then so be it. She is not going to stay here a minute longer.

"Oh?" he says, following her. "Like you lied about your age? I thought you might have been lying about it not being your first time, too, but I wasn't certain until last night."

She presses her hands against her ears. "Stop it! You're not him!" A tiny traitorous part of her wants him to be, but that would mean that she—with her _history teacher_.

He grabs her arm, spins her around to face him. "Je vous assure que je suis celui avec qui vous étiez cette nuit-là."

Oh, god. No. It _is_ him. The French modulates his baritone, makes it deeper, slightly more nasal, and it's exactly like she remembers.

"You said no names, et pas d'anglais. And I accommodated you." He advances on her until her back hits the wall. "I gave you everything you wanted and more. Then you disappeared. Why?"

She can't find the right words to explain how he had given her this incredible, magical moment, and she was afraid if she waited for him to come back with their drinks that reality would settle in, making what they shared somehow _less_. It seems reality found a way to bite her in the ass, anyway.

"I wasn't finished with you," he murmurs, bracing his hands on either side of her. "Have you any idea what it's like to have you sitting a mere ten feet away from me every day when I know the taste of your skin and how it feels to be inside of you? You've driven me to the brink of madness, and you didn't even recognize me."

She wants to laugh and cry at the same time. Darcy has no idea how right she is. It's a silly thought in the middle of this insanity, but it's the only thing that Jane can make any sense of, especially when Mr. Laufeyson—no, _Loki_—tangles his fingers in her hair and leans down. "Stop," she breathes, pushing against his chest. "We can't."

His laugh is soft, raspy. "I'm not your teacher here. You said as much yourself moments ago."

"And come Monday morning?" she asks in a last ditch effort to stave off the inevitable. Every cell in her body is singing with a desire she doesn't think she'll be able to deny if he keeps pursuing this.

He gives her a wolfish grin as he brings his mouth against the shell of her ear and whispers, "I won't tell if you don't."

And there is the proverbial nail in the coffin. She closes her eyes, tilts her head up, and sucks in a final breath before his lips are on hers in a hungry, desperate kiss. Before his hands are grasping the backs of her thighs, lifting her up against him. Before he's carrying her into his room. Before they're crashing into the bed and he's pulling the shirt over her head.

"I've wanted this for _months_," he says as he worships her with his gaze, with fingers trailing over her pebbled skin. "I'm never going to be finished with you."

She doesn't want him to be, either, not when he says things like this. She should have been another notch in his headboard—just a vacation conquest. There's no way he's hurting for company. And that she was memorable to him, enough that he wants more, tells her that he's not just looking for body to warm his bed. He wants _her_.

_God_, she can't think straight anymore. He's managed to get her completely nude now—him, too—and he's kissing a wet trail from the inside of her thigh, up, up, up. She grips the sheets, back arching with a moan when he reaches the apex between her legs. He's not as gentle as he was the first time, not as languid. But she's not as nervous, either, and somehow this is even hotter than the spontaneous, anonymous moment they shared in Monaco. (She'll have to thank Darcy again for inviting her to tag along on Spring Break.)

The fire scorching through her limbs draws inward, downward as he slips a finger inside, then two, and curls. And she's close, _so_ close to erupting into a million subatomic particles. Just a little—

She cries out, back lifting off of the bed, hands fisted in his hair.

He climbs back up her, settles his hips against hers, letting her feel how much he desires her. His grin is practically maniacal as he leans down. "If you think I'll go easy on you in the classroom because of this," he murmurs against her lips, "then you're mistaken."

She laughs. The thought hadn't crossed her mind. She shoves him off of her, forces him onto his back. She straddles him, saying, "I'm not a lazy student," and then proves to him just how ambitious she is.

**~o0O0o~**

_Spring Break, Monte Carlo—Three Months Ago_

This has all become boring. Loki pretends to listen to the girl next to him natter on about Fashion Week in Paris or some other such nonsense that he couldn't care less about. She's pretty enough, but vapid, and he's grown tired of the pretty, vapid women that Stark has paraded before him throughout the week.

"It's the best way to get over a bad breakup," Stark explained when he proposed this trip. "It's been, what, a year? Two, now? You need to get out there again, make sure everything still works right."

Loki shook his head, but he agreed to the idiotic plan—if only to get his old frat brother to shut up. Stark's advice is worthless as the man has never been in a relationship that's lasted longer than an evening, and all of the women are merely stand-ins for the one he truly wants. Fortunately, Pepper is too intelligent to fall for the playboy's guile.

Finding a date has never been the problem. Loki knows he's handsome; he knows how to be charming when it suits him—seductive, even, if he's in the mood. With only a smile, he could have his pick of any number of women. No, the problem is they're all so terribly pedestrian.

Sigyn hadn't been. She'd been intelligent, thoughtful. And beneath her quiet, gentle exterior was a hidden well of passion. He thought—he'd _wanted_... Not the same things she did. She finished nursing school, signed up to work with Doctors Without Borders without consulting him first. He was so angry, so selfish, so _cruel_ when they fought over it. He received a letter after she'd been gone for six months, one that delineated the reasons why they had grown apart, why this was better. She closed with a hope that he'd find someone who would make him happier than she ever did.

The woman clinging to him now is certainly not going to fulfill that wish. He doesn't remember her name, doesn't care to. He doubts he can muster enough desire make a full night of it with her.

"The champagne is gone," she says in heavily-accented English with a pout. She's likely been told that the expression is endearing. It isn't.

Stark rises from the couch opposite Loki and his date. "We can't have that, can we?"

Loki holds up a hand with a smile. "Allow me." Any excuse to escape this relentless tedium.

Bass-heavy music assaults him when he leaves their private room, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darkness. The most direct route to the bar is through the crowd of dancers, which means being pelted with the edible, neon body paint _The Colorful Life_ is known for. Why not? He sighs as he steps onto the dance floor. Wet paint splatters against him only a few steps in, and hands grope at him, encouraging him to join in the writhing throng. He does for a few minutes, reveling in the hedonistic display, the bodies grinding into him. _This_, he likes. His date, not at all.

By the time he reaches the other side, he's covered in daubs of yellow, green, blue, and lavender, all shining brilliantly beneath the black lights lining the walls and ceiling. He shakes the sticky substance from his hands but doesn't bother to wipe his face as he steps up to the bar order a couple of bottles of champagne. He's loathe to return at all, but Stark will send a search party if Loki doesn't turn up eventually.

The nearest bartender is being monopolized by a young woman, her hands gesturing animatedly as she talks. She hasn't been here long, or hasn't danced yet as the lights only illuminate her teeth, her eyes, and her white top—which is little more than a large diamond of fabric covering her chest. He inches closer to get a better look at her, to hear what she's saying.

She's quite attractive, from what little he can make out of her features in the darkness. Young, though. Too young for a place like this, but considering his own rebellious nature, he's not inclined to judge. And she's—wait. Is she debating whether or not Max Planck's contribution to physics is as important as Albert Einstein's? In rudimentary French, no less. Oh, she's already infinitely more interesting than the leggy blonde waiting for him.

"J'ai moi même toujours été amateur de Da Vinci," he says as he leans against the bar next to her.

She turns and jabs a finger at him. "Exactly! Da Vinci! Yes!" The bartender shakes his head and walks away, though she doesn't seem to notice or care. "Quel est votre truc préféré qu'il fait?"

Loki smiles at her grammar school conjugation and starts to answer her question in the native tongue he's certain they share, but she waves her hands.

"No, no, no! En français, s'il vous plaît!" she exclaims with a laugh. "I'm never going to get better at French if all of you insist on practicing your English on me."

He cocks his head, considers telling her that he's British (an ex-pat living in America, more accurately), but this might be fun. So, he expounds on Da Vinci's vast influence on virtually everything in the national language of Monaco, pausing here and there when she needs something translated. She asks surprisingly clever questions, particularly for someone as young as she is, and he's forgotten why he came to the bar in the first place. He can think of no better reason than to meet her.

When there's a lull in their discussion, he asks if she's alone—he doubts it—and if not, where are her friends. She points in the direction of the dancers and says they're out there. This begs his next question: why isn't she dancing, too? She laughs. (He likes her laugh.) No one has asked her yet.

He grabs her hand and drags her away from the bar. He keeps a tight grip on her as they push through the crowd; he's not losing the most fascinating girl he's come across during this holiday. And then they're dancing with his fingers clutching her hips, holding her tight against him as they move to the music. One song, then another, and then another until he loses count, and she's as covered in the paint as he is. She turns around, looks up at him with such unadulterated delight, that he wants to capture it, wants to taste her joy.

He kisses her and she returns it with fervor, hands balling into his shirt as he tugs her closer. Oh, yes. He likes this _very_ much. He wants more of this, more of her. He draws her away from the dance floor, back toward the VIP section where the private rooms are. She may not want to go as far as he wants to, and that's all right. He'll be content to merely listen to her explain the theory of relativity while he sucks the paint from her fingertips. He wants to know her—not just in the biblical sense (and he _wants_ that), but in the intellectual sense. He wants her to know him.

He finds an empty room, pulls her inside, kissing her again as he locks the door. His hand goes to the light switch, but she stops him.

"Gardez le mystère un peu plus longtemps," she whispers, and he thinks that perhaps she does want this, too. He's quite willing to keep up the ruse for now, if she'll let him have her.

He asks her age and she says twenty. He knows it's a lie, but he decides it doesn't matter as he pulls her back to the wide, cushioned bench. It's covered in thick plastic that creaks when he sits with her in his lap. She throws her head back as his lips and tongue travel down the curve of her neck to the hollow above her collarbone. He likes the way she gasps when his teeth graze across her shoulder, when his fingers slide beneath the waistband of her jeans.

But she's shaking, too. Not just from pleasure. She's nervous.

He pulls back. "L'avez-vous fait avant?"

She nods—another lie, perhaps—and she tells him not to stop. He cannot begin to gauge how inexperienced she is, but she will never forget this night; he'll make sure of it. He's excited by the prospect of ruining her for all other plebeian encounters she may have in the coming years.

He reins in his hunger. Their interlude has changed from a frenzied shag in the back of a club to a proper seduction—or as close as he can get to one in this setting. He takes his time exploring her exposed skin with his fingers and lips, never venturing beyond the seams of her top. He grins against her throat when she sighs, sinking lower into his lap. And then she's yanking his shirt over his head, hands brushing down the flat planes of his chest, his abdomen. Even better. She'll be a vixen when she's had more practice.

He _really_ likes her.

Her top goes next and he wishes she would let him turn on the lights. He wants to see her, every curve and valley, her eyes widening when he takes her to the precipice. Next time. For now, he caresses one breast while he takes the peak of the other in his mouth, and oh, how lovely she sounds. Gasping, whimpering softly, rocking into him just so, making him lose his train of thought.

He doesn't know how long it is before he's laying her on the bench, helping her out of her jeans, pulling down her lacey knickers. She's quivering again, drawing her knees together when his hand snakes down her stomach. He explains that she can tell him to stop (please, don't), but she shakes her head and relaxes her legs. He follows his hand with his tongue. This is how he'll destroy her. Because too many men are selfish lovers, and while Loki _is_ selfish—extraordinarily so—his ego is better served by making certain that he's the best she'll ever have.

She almost sits up in shock when he settles between her thighs—kissing, sucking, nipping. He likes the taste of her. And then one finger—slow, _slow_. Then two. She's panting, reaching forward to grasp his hair—a little too tightly, but so very worth the discomfort as he adds one more finger, making her cry out.

And then she screams.

How he wishes he could see her face, flushed with pleasure. He wonders—he _hopes_ he can bring her to the brink again when he's inside of her—when he can feel it. He wants to take her hard, with abandon. (Next time.)

He kisses back up her stomach, between her breasts to her lips. "Se souvenir de ce que je faisais pour vous," he says. "Souvienez-vous de moi."

"Toujours. Toujours." she breathes.

He grins. "Bien."

He would encourage her to take the initiative, to finish undressing him, but he needs her now. He can't wait for her to fumble with his belt, for her to feel comfortable enough to touch him, to rip open the condom packet, so he does it all himself. In a few pounding heartbeats, he's over her again, and he's tempted to finish this without giving her the option to back out. He doesn't want to stop so close to having it all.

"Go ahead," she encourages.

And he does. Slow, slow again. He gasps with her. The feel of her— "_Merde_." Oh, yes. There _will_ be a next time. And more. This won't be enough. Because it hasn't been like this in years.

In the dark, he can't use her expressions, her eyes to guide him to right angle, and he's forced to take more tactile measures. He slides his fingers between them, helps her accelerate towards paradise once more as he moves in tandem—languid, then faster. Harder. Until she's pressing up against his chest, back arching, as she cries out again.

And it's _exquisite_.

He curses as he falls after her, every muscle in his body going rigid for a heartbeat before congealing into useless mush. He collapses next her, pulling her into his side with an arm around her waist.

"That was," she says, "incredible."

He kisses the top of her head. "Yes." He'll take her dancing once more, and then back to his hotel room.

She props herself up on an elbow. "En français, s'il vous plaît."

He laughs. Stubborn little thing. He likes that, too. "Oui, mademoiselle," he says. "Avez-vous soif?"

She is. He tells her to stay put as he dresses, that he'll get them both drinks.

They'll turn on the light when he comes back. Exchange names, phone numbers, addresses. He'll tell her he's not French, and perhaps she'll tell him her real age. And he'll find a way to spend more time with her. Because she's too rare of a find to let slip away after only one interlude.

But she's not in the room when he returns with a pair of bottled waters. He grits his teeth, slams a hand against the door in frustration. There's no use searching the packed club for her. She's long gone.

He's never going to see her again.

Until—

Until she walks into his classroom two weeks later and looks him over without a flicker of recognition.

**~Fin~**

* * *

><p><strong>Translations:<strong>

_La Vie Colorée_ = The Colorful Life  
><em>Je vous assure que je suis celui avec qui vous étiez cette nuit-là.<em> = I assure you that I'm the one you were with that night.  
><em>et pas d'anglais<em> = and not in English  
><em>Je'ai <em>moi-même<em> toujours été amateur de Da Vinci._ = I've always been a fan of Da Vinci myself.  
><em>Quel est votre truc préféré qu'il fait?<em> = What is your favorite thing he does?  
><em>En français, s'il vous plaît!<em> = In French, please!  
><em>Gardez le mystère un peu plus longtemps.<em> = Keep the mystery a little longer.  
><em>L'avez-vous fait avant?<em> = Have you done it before?  
><em>Se souvenir de ce que je faisais pour vous. Souvienez-vous de moi.<em> = Remember what I did for you. Remember me.  
><em>Toujours. Toujours.<em> = Always. Always.  
><em>Bien.<em> = Good.  
><em>Merde.<em> = Shit.  
><em>Oui, mademoiselle. Avez-vous soif?<em> = Yes, miss. Are you thirsty?

**A/N:** Thank you so much for coming along on this wacky ride with me. If you have a moment, I'd love to know your thoughts!


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